The Cause of Calamity
by Phanfan925
Summary: (SEQUEL TO THE PRICE OF WISDOM.) As conflicts in the wizarding community come to a head, Voldemort will stop at nothing to have Kirkland in his clutches, just as Harry will stop at nothing to see the Dark Lord dead.
1. Rancor

**Summary: (Sequel to "The Price of Wisdom". Harry Potter/APH crossover) As conflicts in the wizarding community come to a head, Voldemort will stop at nothing to have Kirkland in his clutches, just as Harry will stop at nothing to see the Dark Lord dead.**

 **Once more, if you're looking for romance, this fanfiction isn't really the place (besides the brief mentions of some cannon HP pairings and PERHAPS a tad bit of Ukranada/Cankraine. Once more, if you're not a fan of this pairing, don't worry, it's doubtful if it'll show up more than once, and not for a loooonng ways into the fanfiction).**

 **Rating: T. Pretty solid T.**

 **Disclaimer: The characters and plot of Harry Potter and Hetalia belong to their respective owners. I only own the fanfiction.**

 **Without further ado, here we go! (And I apologise that this isn't the most... engaging first chapter. Bear with me ^^; )**

* * *

 **Harry**

* * *

Harry James Potter sat slumped against his window, his left cheek pressed flat to the fogged glass. A mixture of moonlight and streetlight filtered through the window to play lightly across his face in pale shapes. Snores echoed throughout the room from the epicentre of his agape mouth, and a thin line of drool had leaked onto the pane of glass, leaving behind a snaky streak of saliva. The sedating effects of sleep and the lack of an audience abolished any shame the boy might've felt for his current state of unattractiveness, had he been awake.

The room itself was a mess, customary of any stereotypical teenage boy. Rubbish was strewn across the floor in the form of bits of parchment, sweet wrappers, open books, a bottle of broom-handle polish, and a set of robes that had grown much too small for him over this past summer. There were newspapers too, almost all of them issues from the Daily Prophet, with only a few muggle additions added to the chaos. Headlines reeking of chaos and calamity screamed from every corner of the bedroom.

 _"Scimgeour Succeeds Fudge."_ A fitting choice, it seemed, and the success of such a candidate was hardly remarkable. What could be more obvious than the former Head Auror from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? Indeed, it was the obvious choice for these approaching war-like conditions, but was it the best one? Harry wouldn't know. He'd never personally met the man, or even heard of his name until now. For now, he was a wild card, and Harry didn't possess enough interest to decipher the new Minister too deeply. Muggle politics gave him a headache as it was, and he was completely incompetent with the intricacies of the magical-political spectrum.

 _"Muggle Football Stadium Collapses, Foul Play from Death Eaters Suspected."_ Sad... Luckily the survivors and the unscathed far outnumbered the casualties. Such tragedies only tightened Harry's resolve though. This _had_ to stop.

 _"Harry Potter, The Chosen One?"_ Unfortunately, Ministry reporters were beginning to catch on to the significance of Voldemort's attempted raid in the Department of Mysteries. 'Just Harry's luck in action.

 _"Ministry Guarantees Hogwarts' Students' Safety." Well, let's hope..._ The Ministry didn't exactly have the greatest past of being genuine in their assorted claims and promises.

Near his open trunk a purple pamphlet lay on the floor, titled with bold, gold letters. _"Issued on Behalf of the Ministry of Magic. PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES."_ The leaflet was a load of mostly useless instructions that wouldn't do anyone much good when coming face-to-face with a mob of Death Eaters, but Harry had kept it nonetheless.

It seemed that the British wizarding world had most definitely degenerated into a state brinking on the cusp of open warfare. Indeed these were troubled times, and so far it seemed to be set to worsen before there would be so much as a prayer of improvement. Voldemort's rise to power, crimes and disasters targeted against those associated with non-magical folk, the re-emergence of living anthropomorphic countries... So much had happened in the last school year alone, and thus far the summer was proving that the next year would be just as if not _more_ eventful and violent.

The clutter in his room was only to be expected, but Harry had a bit more of a reason to be tidy today. Supposedly, Dumbledore would be dropping by tonight to pick him up and drop him off at the burrow. He'd received a letter from the Headmaster three days ago... And yet, Harry had abused the task of cleaning and packing. A part of him just couldn't believe it. Why cement his hopes only for them to come crashing down later when Dumbledore failed to show? And so, Harry had delayed.

He should've known that Dumbledore wasn't one to dally from set appointments.

A flicker from a streetlamp, a ring from the doorbell, and the bellow from his uncle's baritone vocal chords was enough to rouse Harry. After swiftly unsticking the skin of his cheek from the window, Harry feverishly began piling items into his trunk at random. His glasses had been knocked askew and were barely hanging on by the lobe of his right ear and the bridge of his nose, but he was in too much of a rush to bother adjusting them. In a display that was as equally regal as it was impatient, Hedwig fluttered her massive snow-speckled wings and clacked her beak at him from within her closed cage. Fortunately, Harry needed no reminders from his owl to know that he had to hurry; that bit was a given.

Uncle Vernon's booming demands of " _w_ _ho the hell would be calling at_ this _hour?!",_ and _"who the ruddy hell are you?!",_ came charging up the stairs to ring in Harry's eardrums. Dumbledore's calm and collected replies were barely audible in comparison. The sounds gave Harry pause, and he abandoned his last-minute attempt at packing in favour of listening, half-amused and half-panicked. ...Thinking back, he _probably_ should've informed his relatives of the possibility of Dumbledore's arrival. It was a shame that he was realising this only now, when it was too little, too late. Perhaps it was best if he went down there to smooth things out, _right now,_ before things turned too ugly. Yeah, that would be best.

Smiling whimsically, Harry charged down the stairs, ready to face the Dursleys' wrath.

* * *

 **/**

* * *

As was expected, the Durlseys' did not react well to Dumbledore's unannounced visit, and their outrage was only accented by his blatant and unashamed 'wizard-ness' that had metaphorically smacked them in the face upon his arrival. If there was anything that the Dursleys hated as much as or _more_ than Harry, it was anything remotely magical. All in all however, Harry decided that it could've doubtlessly gone way worse.

Part of why the Dursleys had been more-or-less passive had to have been attributed to Dumbledore's aura of intimidation. The old wizard, quirky as he was, had a pervading sense of intelligence and confidence that oozed off him wherever he went, sending many of those with whom he interacted into fits of awe. That plus his no-nonsense yet ever-cheerful and pleasant attitude had made it very strenuous for the Durlsey's to cope with him. For the entire time that Dumbledore was in the house, Uncle Vernon's purple forehead-vein had not disappeared once, pulsating dangerously and without relapse. And yet, even Vernon had not dared to yell as Harry suspected was his real desire, though it looked like he'd almost worked himself up to it a few times before Dumbledore's departure.

Luckily the entire encounter hadn't lasted long, and Harry was relieved beyond belief to _finally_ set foot out of that house. His joy was marred by a new discovery however, one that his eyes had failed to catch earlier...

Only on the way out of 4 Privet Drive did Harry spot the withered condition of Dumbledore's right hand. It was black and charred looking, shrivelled up like some dead body part that had been mummified and preserved. It made Harry ill to look at it, and questions instantly raced through his head as to what the origin of this strange injury had been.

Despite his prying questions and expressions of his concern, Albus Dumbledore adamantly decided against revealing the cause of it to him, which didn't really surprise Harry. Sometimes, he felt as if the headmaster must get a kick out of leaving him in the dark. Although Harry couldn't wring so much as a _hint_ out of him, his lack of success couldn't put a damper on his curiosity. If anything, Dumbledore's evasive, aloof attitude only fed the fire of Harry's intrigue, rather than stamping it out. Not to be cocky, but Harry knew that he'd eventually unearth the truth one way or another. He always did.

Instead of being taken to the burrow straight-away as he'd expected, Harry was first brought by Dumbledore to an empty-appearing muggle house. Before he could ask Dumbledore any questions about the nature of their business at this seemingly-random location, the sight of the house's splintered, broken-down door stunned Harry into silence. Even Dumbledore seemed somewhat alarmed by that brazen sign of a forced-entry.

Instantly a pit formed in Harry's stomach, and his heart dropped. The only source of comfort he could take from the ominous and dark hole that was the doorway was the absence of the dark mark above the house itself. At least the culprits hadn't been Death Eaters. Probably.

With only a mild "oh my" in place of explanations, Dumbledore lead him inside. The interior of the house was in even worse shape, and the scene was nothing short of horrific. Furniture was overturned or torn to shreds, cushions looking as though they'd been blown apart into mounds of feathers. Blood coated one of the walls in a grisly display, not quite dry enough to stop drips and dobs of it from pattering to the tarnished carpet. More than anything, the entire bottom floor, sitting room, kitchen, and all, struck Harry with its eerie emptiness...

It was the stuff of nightmares, the shit that cheap horror films could only hope to emulate, to desperately attempt to capture that same shock effect that was currently besetting Harry.

In the midst of this devastation stood a solitary armchair, looking strangely out-of-place given its surroundings. For one, it was upright, intact, and appeared to be completely untouched in contrast to the rest of the space. Harry's eyes were instantly drawn to it because of this, as were Dumbledore's.

Cautiously, the headmaster approached the chair in a manner that was almost comical. After all, it was only a chair, right? He even drew his wand, holding it in front of him and extending it... until the tip touched, hitting hard into the chair's back. At the prod, the padded chair startled Harry by literally leaping to life. Only, it wasn't really a chair after all. Out of its cushions popped a human head, then a body...

"No need to jab me Albus! Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"

And that was how Harry came to meet Horace Slughorn, the man that he would forever remember as being flawlessly disguised as an armchair.

Dumbfounded, Harry could only stand and listen for more insight as the large chair-man and Dumbledore began to converse. Apparently the threatening state of the house had only been a farce, a set-up hastily constructed by Slughorn in order to deter any prying eyes or Death Eaters. The blood had been _dragon_ , not human, and the damage to the room was easily repaired with a few flicks of Dumbledore and Slughorn's wands. The reversal was rather drastic, revealing a pleasant little muggle home with none of the previous malice present.

It turned out that this Slughorn had once been a Professor at Hogwarts, some fifteen years ago. Harry wasn't fully sure what subject he'd taught then, but he could only assume that Dumbledore was trying to recruit him again so as to fill the now-vacant position of DADA professor. At first the man was adamantly opposed to the whole idea, with paranoia of Death Eaters knowing his whereabouts being the main concern preying on his mind. However, after Harry was introduced to him by Dumbledore, and as time wore on, Harry sensed that Slughorn's conviction was starting to waver, his stubborn frontage softening. It became increasingly clear to Harry that Dumbledore had brought him along to meet Slughorn for a very specific reason; that he was using him to get to the ex-Professor...

In appearance and outward temperament, Horace Slughorn had been a rotund, middle-aged man with a personality that wavered somewhere between the boundary of dull and bizarre. Harry had found him a bit odd, what with his fixation of having favourite former students from years past, but the visit hadn't _entirely_ been unpleasant. The source of his small respite from awkwardness had laid in Slughorn's extensive collection of photographs, which Harry had stumbled upon at some point during his time there.

Slughorn had a mobile shrine of sorts, dedicated to the accomplishments of his most prized students, and amidst that lovingly organised mass of photos and trinkets had been the moving semblances of Lily Potter and Regulus Black. His mother and his late Godfather's deceased brother... Feeling surreal as he gazed upon those faces that he had never seen in life and flesh, and yet that were so familiar, Harry had listened with interest as Horace prattled on about Lily's talents in the art of potion-brewing and Regulus' abilities on the Quidditch field. He'd been a seeker, much like Harry himself, and looking at his slim physique it wasn't hard to gauge why he'd played that particular position. Harry's mother on the other hand... well, Harry certainly hadn't taken after her when it came to potions, but Horace would hear none of that that.

After all of this, Harry's final verdict on Slughorn had been a very mixed one. During the entire encounter, he'd been torn between edging away, flat-out running, or drawing closer to hear him better.

Even if Harry was not entirely pleased with Slughorn, the same could not be said for the man's opinion of Harry. In the end, the deciding factor to prompt Slughorn into taking up the title of "Professor" had been Harry himself, or so Dumbledore had informed him upon their leaving. His presence had supposedly been "essential". Overall though, Harry did not appreciate being unknowingly used as bait by an underhanded Dumbledore. He felt like a worm being dangled on a hook over a wide expanse of featureless water, and Horace Slughorn was some massive, ravenous pike. No, a catfish, what with those whiskers of his that passed for a mustache... Wait, better yet, a _walrus._ Yes, that fit his image perfectly. A tad humorous, but appropriate.

If Harry was being honest with himself, then he had to admit that he'd left Slughorn's temporary hide-away more-than-eagerly after the man had finally agreed to take the job. At that point, and with Slughorn firmly behind him, Harry felt more than ready to head to the burrow and see the Weasley clan. He'd especially missed his best mate, Ron... But once again, Dumbledore sensed his mood and surprised him with ulterior plans.

"Not yet. I'm afraid we have one more man to meet with tonight, Harry. With any luck an application of your remarkable talent for persuasion will convince him to return to Hogwarts as well."

"I don't have a talent for persuasion..." Harry mumbled sheepishly, heating up.

Praise from the Headmaster was almost always welcome, but at the same time Harry took no pride from the way Horace had been coaxed back into teaching. If anything it shamed him, what with him having been the unwitting compensation presented to Slughorn, nothing but a new ornament to add to his _collection_. The _'Slug Club'_. Ugh, just thinking about it made him want to shudder.

"I beg to differ," said Dumbledore calmly. "Getting Horace to budge on anything is no easy task, even with a great deal of bribery."

"Who is it that you want me to speak with this time then?" Surely not someone as eccentric as Slughorn had been. Harry might not survive the night if this new individual was only a repeat of him.

"Someone you know. For now he's in hiding, and doing a decent job of it to his credit. It's taken me quite the stretch of time and effort to track him down."

 _No names, of course. Always so bloody vague._ Harry admired and often adored Dumbledore, but damn it did he wish that he would give him a straight answer every once in a while.

Faintly smiling, Dumbledore extended an arm to Harry, which the teenage-boy took almost reluctantly. The process of apparition began immediately after the contact was established, and only seconds later it was over.

Apparition always left Harry a little woozy and straining to keep his stomach under control, so it took him a brief breath or too to give him the time to regain his wits. Dumbledore was patient at least, and let him have his break. Reeling a little in his skull, his eyes automatically lifted up to take a look at their new surroundings, and what they found _surprised_ him to say the last. Lying in front of them... was an ordinary _pub_.

It was a squat and solid sort of place, with an exterior that was simple and modest. Golden light merrily leaked out of its windows, as if beckoning to possible patrons. Overall, it was a welcoming sort of place, but that first impression was ruined by the awful racket that went a-roaring from the bar and onto the streets in one great thunderstorm of sound.

The name of the muggle establishment was declared by a massive sign of polished wood to be the _"Hound's House"_. In two separate spots the word _"OPEN"_ screamed at Harry's eyeballs from bright, obnoxious neon. Judging by the excess of noise bursting from the building's very cracks and seams, Harry accurately deemed that the advertisement was hardly necessary. Even from its outside, _"Hound's House"_ was a rowdy spot. Hoots, hollers, curses, and the occasional merry and often off-tune song alerted Harry to its bustling interior. This haven for drinkers must've been keeping the entire neighbourhood block and the area outwards wide-awake tonight.

"You're not about to take me in there are you? I'm a minor," weakly protested Harry.

Just as an echoing smash came from inside, Dumbledore replied, "I am sorry Harry, but I must insist. We'll be quick, in and out before you know it."

 _Said the actress to the bishop._ Harry barely stopped himself from saying such a horribly bawdy thing aloud. The headmaster was an easy-going enough fellow, but Harry was not so sure that a wizard of his respect and character would be amused by such a vulgar remark. He'd better save such jokes for Ron, just to be safe.

"Does this at least mean that I get to try a drink?" he joked, not-at-all seriously.

"A valiant effort my boy, but no. In the muggle community, you have two more years to go. Be a little patient~. Now, I'm going to cast a spell so that the occupants of this fine... gathering place, will pay little-to-none mind to us."

"Sounds good?" _I guess?_

In-between warm chuckles directed at the boy, Dumbledore said, "Shall we then Harry? An old acquaintance awaits our audience."

* * *

 **/**

* * *

An overwhelming horde of sights, sounds, and smells hit Harry from the second he and Dumbledore stepped onto the threshold, and most of these senses were of the repugnant breed.

The odours of alcohol, vomit, and bad breath dominated Harry's nostrils, although freshly-scented candles and hot-cooked meals mingled strangely with these unsavoury fragrances in a gallant attempt to keep them at bay.

Fights seemed to be a common theme, and the bar attendant looked like he was quite at a loss of what to do. The slight resignation in his face told Harry that these physical squabbles were not entirely a rare occurrence here. He'd obviously became used to them. At present, the altercations ranged from the verbal variety, with voices hoarse and harsh bickering back and forth, from minor scuffles, to full-out brawls and fist-fights. Harry did his best to edge around the tables where these confrontations were in full-swing as he and Dumbledore determinedly carved their way through the various occupants.

Not all of those in the pub were quite so _excited._ The other half seemed to ignore the chaos around them, sipping at their drinks or else watching the television in peace. One such man sitting on a stool caught Harry's eye in particular, as he was in the general direction that Dumbledore was leading him. Wearing a white button-up shirt that was partially un-tucked from his pants, the man lifted up a shot glass to his lips, swearing as he spilt some down his front.

As they drew ever closer, Harry's eyes started to widen in recognition. Messy blond hair... No, it couldn't be. From only the back of the man's head, it was difficult to tell for _certain_ who he was, but that problem was solved when Dumbledore took a seat at the bar right next to the man, motioning for Harry to do the same. As Harry obeyed, he finally got a full-on look of the man's face, a face that stunned him into dumb-struck silence and tied his tongue into a knot.

It was _Kirkland._

The last time Harry had seen Arthur Kirkland had been in King's Cross station, not too long ago. He'd looked to be in pretty bad shape _then_ , but now he was arguably worse. What was even more worrying was that this degenerating transformation had taken place under the course of only a few weeks...

The white shirt he wore was partially unbuttoned from the front, exposing his throat and collar-bone, and it was sprinkled with the potent smell of hard-alcohol. His already dishevelled hair was misbehaving more than usual, and Harry could've sworn that gray-tinged strands and small grayish-clumps were hiding in that light-coloured heap of tumbling locks. The former-Professor's movements were sluggish and disoriented, Harry noted, a sign that he was not on his first drink. Unthinkingly, Harry's gaze drifted up to Kirkland's green eyes. They were glazed over, signalling that he was also not at his usual peak of intelligence.

"What are you doing here. What the hell d'you want," he blurted brashly to them both, and Harry was taken aback by his informality. It wasn't that Kirkland couldn't be rather impolite every once in a while, especially to people like Dolores Umbridge, but Harry just found that Kirkland was rarely one to direct such rudeness to him, let alone in Dumbledore's presence. It had happened in the past, but not all that often.

Well, at least he could still speak. The alcohol must not have fully set-in yet, as Harry knew all-too-well how incomprehensible and down-right insane Kirkland could be when wholly drunk, which didn't take much anyways. The Halloween party at Hogwarts and Kirkland's legendary episode therein assured that Harry would never, _ever_ forget the state that Kirkland could descend into with merely the promptings of some playfully-spiked-punch.

In the same instant that Dumbledore opened his mouth, the bar-tender brought over two new amber-coloured drinks, announcing one to be brandy and the other to be beer, "Just as you requested sir". As the employee took his leave, Dumbledore started speaking as if he hadn't been interrupted in the first place.

"I would like for you to take up a teaching position once more, to resume full employment."

"Is that so?" Kirkland drawled, obviously more interested in the freshly-served brandy than in what Dumbledore was saying to him.

"Yes. It would make me much happier and at ease to have you in a spot where you can be watched over. There's fewer places as secure as Hogwarts, as you probably know."

"So what, I'm a little lad that needs looking after, I'm I?"

"I don't recall saying that."

"Y'were thinking it. The answer is no."

"I'll have to insist you reconsider."

"You _insist_ now?" Kirkland's drunken voice had a dangerous lilt to it now, a tone that Harry had rarely heard from him. It sent small shivers down his spine, activating some ancient buried instinct to flee and find a shielding shelter.

Dumbledore's response was entirely unaffected. "I do, actually."

"Listen here you man-tart, _no one_ orders me around except for my boss, and you're not my boss. I don't have many things left in this god damn world, but one of them is my freedom of choice. If I want to stay away from snot-nosed kids, I will. If I want to dodge You-know-who and his bitches in any damn-fooled way I want, I will, and if I want to drink my guts out until they burst, I will. Ey, we clear?"

Unperturbed by this passionate rant, Dumbledore went on saying, "I'd give you body guards if I could spare them-"

"I don't need-"

"-But I can't, so Hogwarts is the next best option. It's the perfect place for you to be protected, and Minerva misses you, not to mention the children-"

Without much warning, Kirkland lurched off the stool to stand on his unsteady legs. His ensuing, garbled bellow would've likely grabbed the ears of everyone in the room if not for the already existing clamour. Fortunately, their chaotic surroundings effectively masked the scene that Kirkland was about to create.

"I am _NOT_ going back there, not where _he'll_ know where I am, where I'll be a sitting duck, where he'll be waiting for the chance to strike, where the students will see me after what happened last year, and think- just- _NO._ And that's the end of it, _sir._ " Seemingly spent by that slurred speech, Kirkland slouched heavily back onto his rickety stool, nearly tipping the already-unstable thing in the process.

Harry and Dumbledore went silent, neither one of them really knowing what to say in response to that tirade. As usual, Dumbledore was the first to regain his composure. Clasping his gnarled hands in front of himself, and gazing overtop the rims of his glasses, the old man spoke in utter sorrow, "Is there really nothing I can say to convince you...?"

"Nothing," the country confirmed curtly, finishing the brandy only to immediately move on to the beer. "Now, while you're here, you might as well buy me another drink." A drunk Kirkland apparently abandoned all of his manners in one go, Harry noted.

"I hope you can forgive me, but we won't be doing that. It's an unhealthy, destructive habit... We'll be going now, but if you ever have a change of heart when you're more... sober, er, _rational_ , you know how to contact me."

Quiet and contemplative for another moment, Dumbledore eventually added, "Just a year ago you were in my office asking for a job. Now I'm in a pub of all places, begging _you_ to come back. Strange how these sorts of things turn out eh...?"

Kirkland grunted once, drowning his mouth in another downed gulp of beer. There was a lull then, as if Dumbledore was giving him one more chance to say something more before he left. Unfortunately, that moment never came, and the chance was squandered. Kirkland was resolute and would say no more.

As he got up, Dumbledore's elbow very gently, very unobtrusively bumped against Harry. He jolted, realising that that little knock must've been his cue to speak, as a last ditch effort. He'd been rendered speechless by this new, hopeless Kirkland, but the time had come to push that aside and say his piece. Not that Harry personally thought it would do any good...

" _Please_ , Professor..." he pleaded.

It was only two words, but he poured his heart and soul into those four simple syllables. As much as Kirkland... unnerved him, the last thing Harry would want was to see him bleeding out in a gutter somewhere after a night of heavy drinking, or worse, captured. If a death eater or two waltzed in right now, who was to say that Kirkland would be able to stop them, as uncoordinated as he was?

Kirkland looked firmly away, his jaw stubbornly set and locked. A sigh escaped Harry, the boy knowing that there would be no further reasoning with him tonight. It was pointless to try.

At the same time, something purple on the bar-top caught his eye. An envelope, and one he dimly recognised. An official _Ministry_ envelope, with the matching stationery and everything. Instantly Harry's mind went blank, whirling in confusion. How had a letter from the Ministry of Magic came to be in Kirkland's possession? Had they been corresponding...? There were so many questions and not enough answers.

Dumbledore's eyes darkened as Kirkland hastily snatched up the opened-letter, partially crumpled it, and stuffed it into his pocket before any questions could be presented. His stiff body-language sent a clear signal that they would _not_ be spilling any information out of him regarding the piece of paper. _'It's none of your bloody business',_ the country's eyes seemed to snarl. Whether out of a pre-existing knowledge regarding what the letter entailed, or out of a sense of futility, Dumbledore didn't bother to interrogate him.

Pausing before he moved another step, Dumbledore murmured, "...You really shouldn't keep doing this to yourself, Arthur. I hope you know that."

Still standoffish and mute, Kirkland made a point of raising his glass to his lips, drinking deeply until he had his full. When it came away from his mouth, Harry was frightened to see a red substance lazily sinking and swirling at the surface of the liquor. Blood.

"Come on Harry, let's get going..."

Harry couldn't recall his legs moving, or if he had said anything in reply. He was numb as he left, just trusting Dumbledore not to lead him into a wall, or worse, a belligerent barfly. The image that wouldn't leave his head, that lingered like a tough mold behind his eyeballs, was the sight of bloody-brandy in a glass, comfortably enclosed in Kirkland's curled fingers.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **(Some of you may notice that the whole chapter isn't very true to the book, as usual. This is because I went off my own memories/interpretations of events and only referred to the original book or more accurate settings/descriptions of locations. This is to avoid outright plagiarism for the most part, and to make the fic sort of my own, y'know? This is not different to the way TPoW was written. Just a heads up! : ) )**

 **Sorry this was a bit boring eep. I'm also feeling a little rusty with writing. Not a very exciting first chapter, I agree, but rest assured the rest of the fic is going to have some... interesting twists and turns ;V; Hohoho~ I'm hoping to keep you guys on the edges of your seats C;**

 **Please review? It'll let me know if anyone likes this enough for me to continue! And remember, reviews directly correlate with my writing-rate!**


	2. Shells

****THE COVER FOR THIS FANFICTION WAS DRAWN BY THE TALENTED SONGMINA! CHECK HER OUT, AND I'VE LEFT A LINK IN MY PROFILE IF YOU'D LIKE TO SEE THE FULL-SIZED IMAGE!****

 **Summary:** **(Sequel to "The Price of Wisdom". Harry Potter/APH crossover) As conflicts in the wizarding community come to a head, Voldemort will stop at nothing to have Kirkland in his clutches, just as Harry will stop at nothing to see the Dark Lord dead.**

 **Obligatory disclaimer to the original properties of HP and APH~**

* * *

 **England**

* * *

Steam pooled and swathed itself around Kirkland's unclothed body like one great cloak of cloud. Unsatisfied with this intense level of heat, the country turned the handle another notch to the left, craning his head upwards and closer to the hard-working showerhead. The pressurised stream hit squarely on the crown of his head, running its watery fingers through the sopping-wet mop of his hair and helping to clear the head-ache currently tormenting him.

Another half-hour passed without a word or move from the soaked man. Rinsing patters and "twinkles" of rapidly colliding water from the shower were the only sounds to be heard. Only when the hot water began to dwindle did England finally cut the flow, leaning heavily against the shower-wall with a bowed head, an arm bent above that head, and a clenched fist connected to that arm. Even with the shower turned off, condensed droplets clung to every centimetre of his bare skin, which had turned a delicate shade of pink from the strain of enduring the near-scorching water.

Arthur breathed shallowly, spitting out a red-tinged gob of spittle once. Said bloody-saliva was promptly whisked down the drainpipe, leaving little trace behind of its existence. The shower had helped him, but England's hangover was still a looming, agonising force in the forefront of his head, quite literally. It took all of the nation's willpower to not grip his hair and outright weep like a child, riding out his headache in that way until the painful pulsing faded. Maybe a cup of tea would help banish it... it was worth a try, if only he could summon the energy to leave the comforting confines of the shower and make one. Christ, did he feel low...

Having deemed it somewhat-safe now that the water had stopped, a calico cat pawed and nuzzled at the other side of the shower curtain. Her meows were almost concerned, but definitely insistent. Over the course of the last few weeks she'd grown fat from the plumpness of pregnancy, the partially-developed kits she carried weighing visibly on her belly.

Eventually, her headache-magnifying meows convinced the cat's owner to abandon the steamy safety of the shower. Groggily, Arthur drew back the curtain, instantly allowing the cooler air to enter in a flood and smack him full in the face. Alarmed mews came from the feline as she scrambled out of her master's path. Each step he took scattered drops to the tile and bath-matt below, which the she-cat dodged with a deep distastefulness. Like most members of her kind, Brandee was no fan of getting wet, and she avoided such situations that would render her in that state with a passion.

Meanwhile, Arthur had reached for a towel and was half-heartedly drying himself. After tousling his hair with the towel, he cast it aside with an uncharacteristic carelessness and hastily got dressed in casual clothes that he'd previously placed on the bathroom countertop. Also near the sink and his pile of folded clothes was a lilac letter, slightly damp, a bit wrinkled, but otherwise intact. England plucked it up as he passed through the doorway, now garbed in the fresh change of clothes, his cat anxiously padding behind his heels.

Outside the bathroom was the main section of his newest London hotel room. Few pieces of furniture were scattered throughout the simple room; a single bed, a bedside table and lamp, a cupboard-set, telly... So long as he had a bed and toilet, England could really care less where he slept for the night. He was on the run, after all, and couldn't risk occupying one of his London apartment homes for fear that those locations might be traced back to him. Nor was it wise for him to stay in conspicuous places or in one single hotel for too long without the possibility of drawing attention to himself. Perhaps it was partially paranoid of him to think all of this, but regardless England had taken the safest route by jumping from one nondescript hostel, motel, or hotel, to the next, each and every night.

He very somberly went about making himself a cup of complimentary tea that'd been provided by the hotel, then settled himself down in his bed to sip at it. As if on cue, Brandee leapt like a blur of fur straight into his lap, circling once before laying herself down. Her paws clutched around one of his legs in what was almost a partway hug. Ecstatic purrs became the dominant noise as England's hand rested on her scruff, caressing in soothing, circular motions.

Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, his supply of tea did not last long. After only a minute or so of it dwindling down his throat, his cup was empty and likewise deposited atop the bedside table. With his now-free hand Arthur loosely held the pale-purple letter. He read only out of idleness and skimmed many large chunks of meaningless text, having already read the letter's contents many a time before.

Past the overly-long greetings and salutations from the newly-elected Minster laid the real meat of the letter. There were instructions written in a style so secretive in tone that it was almost laughable, on how to go about meeting up, as well as directions on how to go about getting to the designated meeting place.

 _"It is my hope that we can come to an understanding on how to best proceed in these troubled times. Together, we can better resist He-who-shall-not-be-named's forces with far more efficiency. I plan to not only put up a fight, but to win this deadly game, and I am certain you can relate._

 _-Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic."_

England had replied from almost the moment he'd received this original letter, agreeing to their choice of setting, but only on his own terms and conditions. He wanted a minimum of three aurors present, and protective and concealing wards layered across the entire area as a safety precaution. These requests hadn't been unreasonable, and as expected had been reaffirmed in a second, shorter letter.

And so an official date had been set for tomorrow at an obscure spot in Wales, where England would finally be introduced to the rookie Minister. As that day approached, England found himself obsessing more and more over the letter. He took it with him to just about everywhere he went, rereading it over every other hour to ensure he had remembered all the little details. It was a bit quirky of him, sure, he was aware of that; but at the same time he couldn't quite help himself. It was just in his nature.

If he was finally going to be an _active_ participant in the fight against Voldemort, then he figured he might as well do it with allies coordinating attacks at his side, bolstering his own strengths. Just the thought of working with or for the Ministry made his stomach churn a little, but to crawl back to the Order after all that had transpired was equally distasteful; though if it came down to being an absolute necessity, he would put aside his pride to do just that. However, he could always just be pre-judging the Ministry too hastily. After all, leadership had passed from the bumbling buffoon that was Fudge, and on to someone slightly more capable. Perhaps under Scrimgeour, there had been considerable progress made in the Ministry already.

He could always hope.

* * *

 **Harry**

* * *

"So how was your summer, Harry?" the bushy-haired girl inquired gently, her ginger counterpart pitching in immediately afterwards.

"Yeah mate, how awful was it?"

" _Ron!_ "

"What?! But in all seriousness, how did those muggles treat you?"

Harry chuckled and rocked atop his borrowed bed at the burrow, a permanent smile plastered on his face. It was great to see and talk to his oldest friends again. It was the greatest feeling in the world, actually. Even their bickering made him beam affectionately for nostalgia's sake.

Dumbledore had done him a wonderful service by dropping him off at the Weasley household to spend the remainder of his summer there. The Burrow, with its endearing clutter, gently-sloping walls, lovely smells, Mrs. Weasley's heavenly cooking, and friendly people, had always felt like a second home to him; next to Hogwarts of course. Upon his arrival late last night, he'd received the warmest of receptions from Mrs. Weasley, and in the morning, had been shaken awake to be greeted by the two people he'd been longing to see the most all summer. It'd been a pleasant surprise to see Hermione here as well, down for the rest of the holidays just as he was. Now the whole gang was assembled, and Harry couldn't be happier. With Sirius gone, these two were the most important people in his life. Even before Sirius stepped onto the scene, they always had been, and no one could ever replace them on that pedestal of honour that stood in his heart.

"Surprisingly well, actually," he answered. "Or at least they did their very best to actively avoid me, which is always an improvement. After that scene at the train station, I doubt the Dursley's would've dared to be in the same room with me for more than a few minutes. Enough about them though. What news on Voldemort?"

Ron hissed as if stabbed at the mention of _his_ name, prompting Harry to roll his eyes. He truly did not understand the hysteria associated with the word 'Voldemort', and if anyone was to be afraid of him, it was Harry Potter himself, after all.

"My dad's not as secretive with Order stuff anymore... I guess because I'm getting older, so he told me a bit of what they think he's planning. Apparently they're predicting that You-know-who is trying to infiltrate the Ministry with his own men, but the Order has been shutting down most of that so far... He's also searching for Kirkland, supposedly," Ron coughed, awkwardly. "That's what I _heard,_ anyways."

" _England_ , Ron," Hermione corrected absently, as if deep in thought.

"That's still too bizarre for me. I'm going to keep calling him 'Kirkland' if you don't mind."

"Hm, I suppose you're right. It's a bit odd to say," conceded Hermione with a small shudder. "Kirkland it is."

Feeling it was his turn to speak up, given the subject matter that the conversation had turned to, Harry somberly said, "I saw him the other day."

"Who? Kirkland?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Well Christ Harry, why didn't you say anything sooner?"

"It slipped my mind I guess," he murmured in a careful sort of way, going quiet as he thought back to last night, how sickly, how rude and downright _different_ Kirkland had been. It'd been so unsettling. Slipped his mind? No, maybe not. _More like my mind desperately wanted to forget._

Ever the one to want the full story, Hermione seized the lapse of speech as an opportunity to pitch in with her own questions. "What happened exactly? How is he?"

How to start? Honestly, it'd been a little harrowing to see Kirkland again, but he knew his friends were aching for some small amount of good news, no matter how insignificant the dose. Lying wouldn't help anything though. He'd just have to dive right into it, then.

"Well he wasn't... well."

The two of them simply stared at him, their blank faces screaming volumes that seemed to say _'care to elaborate already?'_ Getting the message clear as day, Harry hastily unloaded more information to sate them.

"Dumbledore took me to this muggle pub, and that's where we found him. He was there, drinking. 'Wasn't all that happy to see us I think."

"How so?"

"I can't say that he really looked all that healthy at the moment, and he was pretty unpleasant to us too. It sounded like he won't be coming back to teach this September."

His friends sported conflicting emotions at hearing that little update. Truth be told, Harry didn't exactly know how to feel about it either. Kirkland had always gone above and beyond in his calling as a Professor, adding a bit of brightening light to every class that would've otherwise been boring, and he had ended up being a decent bloke as well. But at the same time, the country still unsettled Harry. There was so much they didn't know about him, and even if he seemed to be on their side for the time being, the nation was also an unpredictable variable in this war. He was somewhat of a gray, neutral queen-piece on a chessboard, neither black nor white, and this didn't really sit well with Harry's strict moral code.

"That's a shame?" said Ron uncertainly, his words coming across as more of a question than a statement.

Dismally nodding, Harry continued, "There was a letter with him too. Now I can't be one-hundred-percent sure, but I _think_ it was one of those Ministry envelopes. I recognised it from my hearing there last year."

Dubiously, Ron was scratching his head, and Hermione looked off distantly. "I wonder what that could mean," she murmured, only to receive unnecessary and unfruitful shrugs from the boys in reply.

"...Well, there's nothing _we_ can really do about all this while we're still in school, is there?" Ron put forth after a period of dreary, despair-filled silence.

"I guess not..." Harry conceded, feeling more and more helpless and hopeless by the second.

Kirkland would just have to fend for himself, for now. No doubt the nation was used it. As for Voldemort... Well, when Harry was of age, _he'd_ better be making a habit of watching his back, because as far as the prophecy was concerned, Harry was _determined_ to be the one to come out on top, regardless of the odds.

* * *

 **The next day.**

 **England**

* * *

"I'm sorry wee one, you can't come. It'd look very unprofessional. And would you _stop that_ before you tear a hole in my trousers?"

Brandee proceeded to cease clawing at the hem of his pant-leg, mewing dolefully. England ignored her meows of complaint, continuing to get ready for the meeting that he had been agonising over for days now. The moment had finally arrived, and all he could think about was presentation. Not to say that presentation wasn't important...

First impressions were everything, he'd oft found, and so for the first time in over a week, England had exercised enough self-control to refrain from drinking himself senseless this morning, as well as the night before. He couldn't be going about making a fool of himself as either a drunkard or a sorry, hung-over excuse of a human being, or country rather. He'd also done his best to clean up and look presentable, or as somewhat-presentable as possible given his loss of weight and overall health. England had never been particularly robust-looking, though that image had always been deceiving, but now he was even less so.

The clothes he wore weren't exactly his finest, but they would do well enough, and most importantly they equally represented both the magical and ordinary spectrums of his very being. Muggle clothing, and black wizard robes in place of the dark trench coat he'd grown the most accustomed to wearing these days.

 _It's almost like a job interview, of sorts..._

A very, very peculiar, high-security "interview" in which the interviewer was already one of his "bosses", in a way. And his "resume" was his name; 'Arthur Kirkland', England, Great Britain.

He gazed critically at himself in the small main-room mirror, checking his reflection for any flaws in his appearance that required correction. His tie was a little loose... Or was the tie just a tad too formal? Should he rid himself of it altogether? Oh, bugger it all. Deciding on keeping it on, England adjusted the tie with a quick tightening before turning to his cat.

"...I'm a bit nervous," he announced, somewhat ashamed at having voiced his anxieties aloud, and to his cat no less. It was true though. Brave, even seemingly fearless as he could be sometimes, it was more than often a partially put-on act. The prospect of meeting with multiple wizards from an organisation he'd deliberately broken ties with in the past unnerved him. What if they'd set a trap? What if they planned to use him for far more devious devices, not unlike Voldemort? The scenario was unlikely, rather counter-productive, and mostly conjured up from a mind racked with paranoid ramblings, sure, but there was still a sense of legitimacy to his concerns.

Trying for the hundredth time to straighten out his comb-resistant hair, Arthur murmured low under his breath, "I have to be neat," not the unkempt visage he'd adopted most recently through these turbulent times, obviously. That just wouldn't do at all.

"Calm, collected. And above all, I absolutely can _not_ show any signs of weakness..." he drifted off, slightly overwhelmed by the daunting task of deception he had ahead of him.

He could manage all that in one meeting, right? It wasn't as if he was pretending to be something he wasn't. Except... the covering up of any weakness... That little detail would have to be an act, to reassure the Minister, to prevent the crushing of any fragile hopes. Subconsciously, England's eyes leapt to the oblivious cat, for comfort, heartening, or something he knew not. Talking to himself with the animal as an audience always seemed to calm him.

 _Time to go. No more stalling if I want to arrive punctually._

Having steeled himself by taking a deep, filling breath that rattled through his lungs, and with one final glance at the mirror, Arthur apparated away.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

* * *

 **Like I said at the start of this chap, the awesome sauce cover for Cause of Calamity was drawn by SongMina! Check her out on DeviantART and fanfiction C;**

 **This summer is officially the busiest one I've yet to experience. Welcome to adulthood I suppose :'T Apologies for the late wait for an update. This chapter is also less substantial/exciting than the last one, but it was all necessary filler, I promise. Sorry! Goodness, it would've taken far longer to get out, but all of your guys' kind words kept me in check!**

 **Final smol sorreh to the people I missed when replying to reviews. I sort of got to about the halfway mark, jumped around, lost track, and got demotivated. I'll try harder to keep on top of them C; Rest assured I read and appreciated each one. You are all too sweet, and some of your thoughts are interesting!**

 **Review before I'm plunged into the hell of school? Reviews directly help with my writing. ;w; You lot are awesome-sauce.**

 **(Also excuse any ittie bittie grammar screw-ups. I was rushed and not very thorough when proof-reading this for the final time aah ;w; )**


	3. Kindred

**Summary:** **(Sequel to "The Price of Wisdom". Harry Potter/APH crossover) As conflicts in the wizarding community come to a head, Voldemort will stop at nothing to have Kirkland in his clutches, just as Harry will stop at nothing to see the Dark Lord dead.**

 **Disclaimer: The fanfiction is mine; nothing else.**

* * *

 **England**

* * *

His arrival was punctuated by a crack that disturbed the general atmosphere of silence in which he'd been thrust into, frightening away a mass of birds that had previously been roosting in an overhanging tree, but which now flocked to the sky in a whirlwind of wings. This area in Wales was a peaceful place, nestled away in the part of the country where urban centres were replaced by rolling hills, lush-green grass, and the pungent, _colourful_ smell of sheep shit. Signs of mankind's existence manifested themselves in the forms of a distant rural town, a winding dirt road, a collection of domestic sheep grazing not far-off, and small stone walls and groves of trees dividing separate fields. Aside from the sheep- which were well out of ear-shot should they in fact be smart, conniving spies working for the Dark Lord in secret- England was entirely alone. All was as it should be. Now he only had to wait.

Just then, five more _cracks_ rang out and split the air, less muted than even England's loud arrival had been. Five accompanying figures to the sounds strode across the grass in a loose, disorganised formation. They trudged up the hill towards him, the scruffy-haired Minister of Magic being the most recognisable of the group. The other four men were random faces of which England had no living memory, but were identifiable as aurors by their specific, uniform-like robes.

"I see you're on time; beat us here even," Scrimgeour chuckled in his gravelly voice, reminiscent of an old lion's growl. It was a forced laugh, like the laugh of a man trying to break the ice, ease the tension, and make a new "friend"... or perhaps _ally_ was a more accurate of a term. "Punctuality is a virtue."

As dead and dry as the comment truly was, England played along and laughed lightly with him. Social norms and the intricate art of ally-making dictated that he do so, though his knowledge of it was usually rudimentary at best.

His reception thus far was warm enough, but England couldn't help but notice how tense the assembled aurors were, how their fingers frequently twitched towards their concealed wands, how they'd discreetly fanned out to flank the Minister and he from all sides, casual-like. Knowing that this was probably all for their protection didn't stop England from feeling uneasy. He didn't like being under the impression that he was being cornered, true or not though the impression may be.

"So, here we are..." Scrimgeour uncomfortably started up again.

Nodding, England added, "I suppose introductions aren't exactly necessary at this point, eh?"

"Yes, 'bit redundant, I agree. Still, we ought to do this properly. I'm Rufus," said the Minister, thrusting out his stiff hand in a strong show of confidence.

Taking the outstretched hand and clasping it in his, with a firm grip of his own that did absolutely nothing to hint at his hesitant reservations, Arthur replied curtly, "England."

Eyes widening and his hold wavering, Scrimgeour withdrew his hand and cleared his throat brusquely. He drew himself up straight in a business-like posture before speaking once more, something that England recognised as a subtle but serious power-play. It seemed that the Minister desired to be the dominant force in not only this conversation, but possibly in their future comradeship as well, England wagered amusedly.

 _Well, let him try._ Only the most worthy of his previous bosses in both politics and the monarchy had earned his full and _true_ respect, as well as _complete_ dominion over him, some of his favourites being Elizabeth and old Winston himself. The same rules applied to the Minister, and Scrimgeour did not strike England as quite that impressive yet.

"If I'm being honest, I hardly believed... But when Cornellius showed me that letter, and the declassified documents...Poor oaf was hysterical by the way, bless his soul. And well, here you are now, so it must be true after all."

"It is." Like cold emeralds, England's eyes hardened. Any weaker man as Minister, such as Fudge, might've gulped or stuttered right then and there at the ominous expression, but Scrimgeour only tugged at the cuff of his sleeve. There was a bit of steel in this man. He was stronger than most, England would give him that.

"I believe you, based on the evidence, but I admit that I don't understand how such a thing is at all possible. Then again, in this magical world of ours..."

 _It goes beyond mortal comprehension. Hell, it's even outside_ my _comprehension some days,_ Arthur begrudgingly thought as Scrimgeour talked. Mysteriously the man drifted off, letting his half-formed sentence hang weightily in the air, like a dangling piano above their heads, or a building storm. England took the liberty of finishing for him.

"-Who's to say what is or isn't possible?"

"Exactly. A wise sentiment," the somber Minister praised with a vague wink. It was still all very forced; an act, and one that England was growing frustrated with, however hypocritical of him it was seeing as both of them were exercising a refusal to be their true selves to some extent or another. Deception was oft-times a necessary evil, and especially in cases like these, when so much hinged on the outcome. Rufus had falsified his character as overly-friendly to gain an upper hand, while England... well, he was hiding just how hard it was to stand there without slumping or hacking his lungs raw.

"Being a country is still such a foreign concept to me. You'll have to tell me all about it sometime," hopefully suggested Scrimgeour.

"Sometime," said England, his voice bland, emotionless, no promises or even _hints_ of promises attached.

"Well then, I'll be looking forward to it."

 _Don't hold your breath,_ thought Kirkland, just as Scrimgeour's voice suddenly started to speak over his mental broodings.

"Now that we've had a chance to talk, how about we head back to the Ministry and continue our conversation there?" he proposed, glancing once at a wristwatch that had previously been hidden beneath his left sleeve.

"If you're _sure_ that's wise," England retorted slowly but easily.

"Don't you trust me?"

England chose not to chance being dishonest by responding to that challenge, instead glancing off to his left to watch the grass bend and sway in the breeze. No words were needed to convey his levels of 'trust', and the frown that Scrimgeour reacted to the silence with spoke whole volumes on its own.

"We're on the same side here Mr. Kirkland, I assure you."

 _That remains yet to be seen,_ was what England wanted to say, all snark, but what he inoffensively said instead was: "It's not you, Minister. It's the likelihood of the Dark Lord's servant's lingering within the Ministry's walls. It's happened all too often in the past if you'll recall, and I doubt you've weeded them out completely."

"I keep close tabs on every single suspicious entity there. When I have undebatable evidence, I _will_ have them all thrown in Azkaban to rot. There's no need to worry. No harm will come to you."

"I don't care about that," the nation said, brushing aside the inconsequential concept of 'harm'. There was so much more at stake here... "I care about word of this working its way back to _You-know-who's_ ears. If I come across any spies..."

"You won't," Rufus stated firmly. "It will all be secret; confidential."

No longer seeing a way or reason to weasel out of this, England sighed in defeat and relented, "If you say so. I will trust you this time, Minister."

 _Don't you dare disappoint me_

"You won't regret it, chap."

Something copper-coloured glinted in Rufus' open palm, pulled from one of his pockets. At first Arthur assumed it was a polished penny from its appearance, but at a second glance and from further scrutiny deduced that it was in fact a bronze knut. Wizard coinage. Of course. Why he would expect anything different was really just beyond him.

England raised an eyebrow as the item came into the sunlight, a slight, unnatural shimmer indicating its magical properties. "You had a portkey prepared this whole time?"

"From the start, yes," he admitted unapologetically.

"What if I had refused?"

"I would've been very disappointed if you'd done that."

"Hmph."

Eager to be off, the coin began to vibrate and glow faintly in Scrimgeour's hand, emitting a hard-to-hear thrumming sound. It's strange humming alerted both men like a timed-out cooking alarm, and Scrimgeour soon started to display signs of impatience that mirrored the active portkey itself.

"It should depart any second now. Are you ready?"

England grunted, fingers outstretching to grasp overtop the enchanted knut. Almost an instant later they were off, the portkey dragging their bodies away from Wales. They traversed through the very fabric of existence, only for them to be dropped off in the Ministry a moment later. England was mildly relieved to appear in the Minister's private and closed-off office, away from the hustle, bustle, and prying eyes of the main foyer. It was a small gesture, really, but he appreciated it all the same.

Waving his hand invitingly at a chair across from him, Scrimgeour sat down behind his desk. "Please, take a seat."

Grateful for the opportunity to rest his weary body, England instantly sat, straight and without slumping even the slightest amount. Immediately upon sitting, his line-of-gaze came into contact with a framed photograph resting atop the Minister's uncluttered desktop. Black and white personages shifted restlessly within the frame, sometimes smiling out from their paper home in an uneasy, wan kind of way. England could've sworn that it was if they too sensed the dire state of affairs in not only the wizarding world of Britain, but also in the very Ministry and in the mind of the Minister at its head.

"Is this your family?" England asked, curious and pointing.

"Yes. My wife and son, then my mother and sister-in-law in the back."

"Ah... They seem lovely."

"Thank you. I do worry about them though, in these times... Do _you_ have a family, Kirkland?"

"Of sorts..."

Scrimgeour didn't wait long for him to expound. After only a short while, which produced no elaborating words whatsoever, Scrimgeour moved on and promptly launched in the next topic of discussion.

"I believe my old department would be a fitting place for you, if I'm not so bold in saying it-"

"Not at all."

"Yes, well, someone with your capabilities... No doubt you've had scuffles with dark wizards before, and know how to deal with their breed."

"A few times," he said vaguely, while inwardly, even _painfully_ aware that he was arguably one himself. "Though none quite as persistent and powerful as the particular problem we have on our hands right now."

Scrimgeour frowned, the act accentuating the worn lines in his face. "That is... worrying, if I'm being honest. Are you sure? You've been around for such a long time..."

"He is by far one of the worst," England nonsensically confirmed. _Voldemort is a very special case._ _In all my history, there are few that can compete._

Attempting to be optimistic, Scrimgeour replied, "In that case, who better to bolster the finest auror force in existence? None-other than _you_ of course."

"Thank you, but I wouldn't exactly call your aurors 'the finest'."

"Alas," Rufus sighed, his eyes burning at the offense. "But with your help, anything is possible?"

"Now you're just stroking my ego, Minister. There's such a thing as too much flattery."

"Of course, we'll have to pair you with a partner," abruptly went on Rufus without any comment on his being called out.

England recoiled in his chair. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's policy. All new recruits are paired with another auror of equal, or preferably greater experience. In your case no one can surpass you, so we'll have to settle with someone simple."

"...You have got to be kidding..." snorted England, stunned and internally fuming.

"I'm afraid not. After all, it _is_ policy. I wouldn't make an exception for anyone, let alone one as valuable as yourself. An extra person at your side for a bit of protection couldn't hurt."

Snickering bitterly, England snapped back, "There's no need to humiliate me, _Minister_."

"That was not my intention."

"I prefer to work alone, and 'am perfectly capable of taking care of myself without a babysitter."

"Of that I have no doubt, but you'll have to humour me this time if you'd still like to help out. I need a pair of eyes watching you at all times, for safety reasons."

England snarled savagely at the double meaning of that sentence. How _dare_ he. How dare he imply that he was a threat to not only himself, but to others?

 _I hope he realises that any pitiful wizard he assigns to be at my side would be overpowered in an instant, should he overstep his bounds..._

"I see... As it seems I don't have much choice here, I will trust your judgement on this, Minister," he huffed begrudgingly, venom dripping from his words. The Minister flinched as if stung before nodding.

"Your cooperation is much appreciated, England. Now if you would please follow me..."

* * *

 **America**

* * *

"You have to focus," came Canada's voice, calm but somehow reprimanding as it entered America's ears.

"On what?" The country bit back, scrunching his eyes shut tightly. Clenched in his lap were his fists, occasionally contracting as if that minute movement would somehow taper the errant trailings of his thoughts.

"On... well, nothing."

" _How?_ "

Focus on "nothing"? As England might say, America had never heard of anything so counterproductive, paradoxical, and just plain moronic in his life. How did one do such a feat? It wasn't as if Alfred was a monk, or something. He was trying to grasp the art of _occlumency_ , not some weird, mystical, jedi-meditation for God's sake.

America was starting to think that Canada just wasn't suited to teaching. Or maybe America was a poor student? In the end, America surmised to himself that it must be a combination of both. But either way, Canada had received his instruction straight from England, and America found himself wishing that he had been given the same opportunity, rather than learning second-hand from his brother. Maybe things would be a little clearer coming from the mouth of one who truly knew what he was doing, without any doubts. Then again, England was far less patient with America than Canada was, more demanding of perfection...

 _"I expect only the best from you, Alfred Jones. You'll do great things someday, I'm sure of it._ We'll _do great things, as a family."_

A family? Or your empire, _a younger Alfred thought with the tiniest trace of rebellion, not quite a teenager in his physiology, but already starting to doubt his place in this grand vision of his brother and caretaker._

"Alfred, you're not concentrating," softly spoke up his brother.

"Damn it!"

That shook him out of his aimless, frustrated thoughts. Was it even worth it, trying to learn this rare skill? Canada certainly thought so. He'd assured America that: _"Even the most mediocre effort would help protect you from people like... You-know-who. Every little bit counts. I don't want him, or anyone else like him, going after you."_ And so Alfred had relented, due to a sense of brotherly duty to placate Matthew's concerns if nothing else.

"Just... let yourself go blank. I don't know how to describe it."

Frowning, Alfred let himself sink into a lull. His mind became a clean slate, imitating the landscape of a long, flat prairie. His thoughts drifted in a very freeing feeling, like the pull of a calm river, and he almost didn't hear Canada's next comment.

"Good... now that was just the first step. Next you have to fortify a sort of protective barrier."

"Like what?"

"The design depends on the person, I think. Mine is like a forest, with big trees and thick bushes," Matthew said modestly. "You are the architect of your own mind."

America contemplated this for a while, chewing over a few ideas in his head. Eventually he did settle on something that felt almost natural to him. A hill, no, a _mountain_ , stretching high into the sky, its peak scraping the clouds like a claw. At various points around its perimeter, he dug long lines of trenches and added "booby-traps" of sorts at different altitudes along the mountain's slope.

 _There, finished..._ It felt odd. It wasn't a literal mountain, but a very real product of the mind nonetheless. _His_ mind. This was his creation, a part of him.

"That's amazing Alfred. I'm no expert, but I think you might have a natural talent for this."

His blue eyes flashed open to beam at his brother. "Really? Well _hell yeah_ , it took me long enough."

"It could always use a little more defense at the top... Someplace where you can store everything you want hidden."

"I'll make a bunker-thing, maybe. Oh man, April-Fools... that's _definitely_ going in the bunker," said Alfred, indeed constructing a cozy bunker made of mind-forged concrete at the mountain's top. All the while, Canada's chuckles ran lightly throughout the room.

* * *

 **England**

* * *

"You will be working with Mr. Charlton. He's been here with us for a year now. Say hello, Jeremy."

At being addressed the man turned to face them, his doe-like eyes lighting up even as his hand was eagerly extended in invitation. He was surrounded by the typical going-ons of the Auror Office, flying paperwork, occupied agents, and the like, but his focus remained solely on the Minister and his companion. "Jeremy Charlton. Pleasure to meet you sir."

A face framed by brown hair and containing earnest brown eyes greeted him. There was the faintest strain of a Geordie accent in Jeremy Charlton's voice, faded to the point that England's ears could just barely detect it. He was a man of about twenty-six years, if England were to gauge his age by looks alone; decently handsome, with a kind face, but overall a rather plain-looking person of unremarkable build. To put it simply, Jeremy Charlton did not strike England as the "dark-wizard hunter" type. England knew more than anyone to not judge by appearance-based first impressions- he himself being a rather skinny and unassuming fellow- but the openness of Charlton's face was doing little to convince England otherwise.

"Charmed," said England dryly, taking the hand. He was not at all impressed by this very simple-seeming auror whom he was to be paired with, possibly for the duration of his time working with the Ministry.

 _No._ England decided, shuddering at the thought. _If this goes on for longer than a month, I'll fight it. I will not be hindered and spied on by the very people I'm seeking to assist._

"I will leave you two for now. Jeremy knows of his role already."

"And that is?" asked Arthur, less for clarification and more to express his dislike of the situation.

"To accompany you and to follow your lead and judgements... But also to keep you in line if things become too dangerous. Charlton understands this, don't you Charlton?" said Rufus, pointedly ignoring England's dark and brooding expression.

"Absolutely." Jeremy beamed like a school boy, and England was nearly made sick as a result. He could've sworn that he'd thrown up a little in the back of his mouth. The auror may very well have been a respectable bloke, but England couldn't help but project his dissatisfaction with the arrangement onto him.

"Very well then. I have to go now, but it'd be best to take Kirkland here and sign in with Shacklebolt, if you want my suggestion. I believe he could find something for the two of you to do, especially after the recent attacks..." On that ominous note, Scrimgeour took his leave, and England was left feeling as bleak as ever.

"...I just can't understand," said Jeremy in that simple, genuine way of his, shaking his head slowly. "How anyone could justify any of this, on account of blood... It just makes no sense."

Arthur glanced sharply at him, perplexed at the phenomenon of how a man seemingly so innocent-hearted had landed himself a position as an auror. Jeremy was a rare gem indeed, hidden in a field of rough and hardened stones. Sighing once, the young wizard swiftly switched the conversation to something lighter, much to England's dismay. He deeply disliked talking about personal things, especially when they concerned himself.

"I'm a half-blood meself. 'Old man scarpered shortly after getting the Mam knocked up. Lived with Muggles, since she was one herself. Lovely folk. You?"

"My family has always had the ability to use magic," England explained cautiously, like his very words were feet treading on a torn tight-rope suspended hundreds of feet in the air. "But I wouldn't exactly classify myself as a pureblood."

"Sounds awfully complicated."

"It is."

"I admit I don't wholly understand but... eh, straight answers are hard to come by these days."

"I have my reasons for secrecy," said England shortly, and that put an end to the inquiries.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **(Please excuse any grammar errors. I wanted to post this as soon as possible, so I only proof-read once).**

 **Wow it's been a long time. I'd like to apologize for that, but as usual my absence has been in part due to circumstances beyond my control. University, as fun as it is, has been kicking me in the butt~ All my writing time has been dedicated to essays, and I've had my work cut out for me just in general pff. I'll also admit that I was a little discouraged when the previous chapter experienced a substantial drop in reviews from what I'd usually come to expect ^^; .**

 **But I'm back now! I don't know how regular updates will be, but rest assured I won't give up on you guys! You're too awesome for that~**

 **Another slow chapter but OooO, what's going to happen next now that England is being integrated into the Ministry? How will things play out...? We'll just have to wait and see hohO.**

 **Please review! Your kind words have always been a huge resource of inspiration for me! jsdoiaeriaouhjp -huggles and snuggels all around-**

 **And finally, as an aside note... How would you all feel if I made a deviantART group dedicated to TPoW and TCoC? (or as I like to call them: PoW and CoC(k) pFF X'DD) I was given the idea a while back from a bud, and I would use it as a sort of community-building platform, where I could give small sneak-peaks for chapters in-between delays (probably no longer than a paragraph or 3), advertise lifestreams where I could chat as I write/animate (with my web browser hidden of course; no spoilers! C; ), and maybe have small contests with one-shots and/or drawings as prizes? You tell me -shruggles-. Personally it sounds like a lot of time to put aside with my busy schedule, and I'm a bit dubious about it. BUT if enough of you are down for it, then I'll be sure to make room for something fun like that.**


	4. Moles

**Summary: (Sequel to "The Price of Wisdom". Harry Potter/APH crossover) As conflicts in the wizarding community come to a head, Voldemort will stop at nothing to have Kirkland in his clutches, just as Harry will stop at nothing to see the Dark Lord dead.**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own APH or HP boop.**

* * *

 **England**

* * *

Two weeks had swept swiftly by since England had first signed on as an honorary "Auror". Even with all that time, the other Aurors still didn't know what to think of him or how to grow accustomed to his unexplained presence in their department. Arthur liked to assume that they were just automatically skeptical by nature, as an Auror _should_ be; but he knew there were more reasons as to why he hadn't exactly been accepted into the fold. For one, he was purely a _volunteer_ with no pay whatsoever, and more importantly, one with no official training that they knew of. Furthermore, the Minister seemed to put a blind, perhaps misplaced faith in him, that was supported by England's uncanny ability to predict attacks either as they happened or shortly afterwards. Adding to all of this bafflement was England's own, reclusive ways. His introverted and at-times-lofty personality didn't exactly inspire comradeship, and so he was somewhat set apart and aloof from all the others.

Jeremy however, had more-than-eagerly extended the hand of friendship, much to England's distaste. It seemed the Geordie-wizard was a bit of an outcast himself, in part due to his overwhelming go-lucky attitude. In that way, he and England were opposites, notwithstanding their shared solidarity. It wasn't that those in his department weren't friendly to Jeremy's face. As professionals, they most certainly didn't descend to the point of petty, outward hostility. To their credit, they weren't on the level of a gaggle of girls in secondary-school. Nonetheless, England did notice that Jeremy unsettled them; though not nearly as much as himself. Altogether, the two of them made for quite the pair of black sheep on the social scene.

Despite Jeremy Charlton's clinginess, England found him reasonably useful in a few ways. All of England's tips and assignments, both formal and informal, came through Charlton first. If nothing else, he made for a good messenger, and was always willing to lend his assistance in whatever capacity that was available. Alas, if only his head weren't so damn empty of anything resembling an original thought, then he might've been a bit more bright.

Much of England's time was consumed by errand-like visits to crime-scenes, wherein You-Know-Who's followers had struck. Such investigations were often grim affairs, full of morbid imageries and messages, most often left for him. He could remember a time when he'd discovered a woman's corpse, with the blood of her broken-open chest, smeared out over the walls to form a single scrawling word: _"England"._ This curiosity flew completely over Charlton's head of course, but England comprehended the bestial gesture loud and clear. _He_ had discovered his involvement with the Ministry, and _he_ wasn't adverse to playing sick mind games with England about it, toying with him...

Nonetheless, England was still prone to bouts of success in his work. He found himself to be quite suited to the role of "detective", and his expertise in the Dark Arts only added to his adeptness and his tendency to uncover valuable insights. It was through England's efforts and experience that the Ministry had discovered evidence of the Dark Lord's use of Inferi, though judging by the body count, it was on a much smaller scale in comparison to his earlier operations. England alone had become aware of some older, dangerous spells that the Death Eaters had been using. Their traces were littered like a sulphuric stench throughout the crime scenes, and only England could seem to sense their keen 'scent'. It made him wonder what other ancient spells the Dark Lord had dug up for his own personal use, and he was morbidly curious as to just how much magical information he'd passed on to his servants. This kind of magic had fallen out of popular use for good reason, and its resurgence was... disturbing.

It was one early morning when England received yet another message from Jeremy. Just as each instance in the past, the actual message itself was preceded by his being rudely roused into wakefulness by a monster of a grey owl. It was times like these that he truly pleaded with the universe for wizard-kind to see the advantages of mobile-phone communication.

"AWF! BUGGER OFF YE-" he bellowed, voice muffled by the feathers of the owl's wings, which beat unrelentingly against him. Owls were nothing if not determinedly dedicated to their work, to the point of brutality sometimes.

He was eventually able to fend the fiendish bird off and retrieve the piece of parchment it'd been delivering. The blockish handwriting was an instant give-away to its author, boldly standing out and rendering the signed _'-Jeremy'_ at the bottom redundant. What was written was scarce in word count but succinct enough that England grasped the meaning and urgency immediately.

 _'I need you to come over, quick. Something's happened. There's been another Dark Mark sighting. I'll be at the offices. -Jeremy'_

England blinked, re-reading it again. Surely he would've sensed a new attack? Sure, he'd been sleeping, but there had been no visions invading his dreams like before. He had to remind himself that it wasn't completely uncommon for him to miss a murder or two these days. His body had been adapting as of late as attacks became more intrepid and frequent, and it'd been a blessed reprieve these past weeks. So, it wasn't totally out of the question that his slow-to-return strength had saved him from the horrors of another one of You-know-who's atrocities.

 _Regardless, I'd better get there quick._ resolved England decisively, standing and simultaneously scaring Brandee out from under the covers. _Duty calls._

* * *

 **Harry**

* * *

Diagon Alley was a sight for sore eyes, or rather, it _would've_ been, if not for the grim transformation it'd undergone. In the short span of time since the confirmation of Voldemort's return, it'd emerged as an entirely separate setting from what Harry was accustomed. A grim atmosphere had settled like a choking smog over the street and its shops, silencing everything. The people darted furtively from place to place, reduced to fretful and fearful creatures. It was a far cry from the bustling excitement of past years that Harry had come to expect. Where once there'd been magic, colour, and life, only wariness was left behind—a highly contagious sense of suspicion that was all-encompassing.

The newly-established _'Weasley Wizarding Wheezes'_ joke-shop, run by none other than the afore-mentioned Weasley twins themselves, was the one solitary source of Diagon's former enchanting, and at times even ridiculous, spirit. It stood like a beacon amongst the bleakness, a stark contrast to the boarded-up shops on either of its sides. Harry and Ron had been enthralled with the place, with its endless aisles of ingenious products designed by the twins' own wit, each a little more impressive than the last. Even Hermione couldn't resist the store's infectious charm. Often times Harry would spot her examining some invention or other, a smile touching her face. Truly, the twins were more than just tricksters, but geniuses in their own right. Overall, Harry couldn't be more pleased or delighted as to where his Triwizard winnings had went, and how the twins had utilised the investment.

Outside of the joke-shop however, Diagon alley remained as dark, dissolute, and desolate as ever, rivaled only by its twin sister-street: Knockturn. Naturally it would follow that Harry would avoid such a place, and usually he might've. But that day, curiosity compelled him to come to Knockturn, driven by an urge to investigate the doings of an old "friend".

Draco Malfoy. Harry was the first to spot him, drifting suspiciously past the Weasley's front window with surreptitious glances over his shoulder. It didn't take much to convince Ron and Hermione to pursue him under the cover of Harry's invisibility cloak. Knowing Malfoy, he couldn't be up to any good.

And so, against all odds, previous inclinations, and past aversions, Harry and his friends found themselves in this dodgy location, following none-other than their long-time rival. The Slytherin led them to the shop of _Borgin and Burke's_ _,_ somewhat familiar to Harry from a floo-powder mishap in his second year. From what he could remember of the place, it specialised in the trade of dark, tainted artifacts, some of which he secretly suspected were less-than-legal to be sold or casually kept. He could also recall that this wasn't Malfoy's first time browsing in this particular establishment.

Hidden by Harry's cloak, the three students hunkered beside the shop's murky windows. Extendable ears courtesy of the Weasley twins aided in their eavesdropping endeavour. The conversation between Borgin and Malfoy was ominous, if not vague, but the more it carried on the more that Harry grew certain of a conclusion...

* * *

 **England**

* * *

"Pardon my French, but this is bollocks."

"You're not very optimistic, are you?" noted Charlton meekly.

"It's a bit difficult when there's hardly anything to be bloody positive about, isn't it?"

Jeremy said nothing to that, surveying the skies with that wide-eyed stare of his. It always seemed to England as though the wizard was some dumb deer, constantly caught in a pair of headlights, his eyes paralysed in a state of wondering awe. But like a deer, Jeremy was prone to acting like an awfully naïve animal, not realising that the pretty lights fast-approaching carried with them the promise of certain death.

Drifting like an ominous storm-cloud above their heads was the Dark Mark. If England was to fathom a guess concerning the recentness of the Mark, he would have to deduce that it'd been cast a good few hours ago. This estimation was surmised on the basis by which he judged the dull hue of the curse, and the way that its foggy ends sparked feebly, like a cut live-wire. The snake from its gaping jaw was naught but a blurred tendril of smoke by now, its form unrecognisable as the serpent it was supposed to resemble. However, the empty eye sockets loomed as ominously as ever. Even England experienced a slight chill at their vacant stare.

"I'm hardly familiar with Dark Magic," England lied smoothly, swallowing. "But I believe this is old. Been around for at least two-and-a-half hours. We're much too late I'm afraid."

"There might be a chance-" insisted Jeremy in an uncanny tone that mixed and mingled between the boundary of hope and hollowness. Voice wavering to a halt, he surged forward and followed the Mark as if driven by a jolt of lightning. Arthur wasn't far behind, though his pace was one of demoralised pessimism.

The Mark led them to a house that was unmistakably Muggle in its design, construction, and overall origin. That in itself did not necessary guarantee that its owners were Muggles, though England was not particularly inclined to believe otherwise. In aura and outwards appearance, the house was as ordinary as its neighbours. Nothing, save You-know-who's signature Mark overhead, attributed any sort of magical element to the house. As the pair got closer, it became clear that the door had been a point of violent entry. It hung from its hinges, splintered by a strength that went beyond mortal muscle. Evidence of magic at last.

"I don't like this," uttered Jeremy in an undertone, cringing from the broken-down door as a child does before the sight of a needle.

"Then don't come," Arthur remedied, shortly and bluntly. He was the first to enter, shuddering silently as he passed across the threshold. Flinching from shame, Jeremy lingered by the doorway for only a wee while to swallow his shortcomings, before following after England, as was his appointed duty.

Half-expecting to find a throng of bodies sprawled out on the floor upon entry, with a message scrawled out in their very blood, England passed through the threshold and into the main room. His attitude of caution and cynicism was unwarranted however, or so it seemed. Instead what he found was an empty space, its surfaces dusty, and quiet - almost _too_ quiet for his tastes. No furniture was to be found, and for all intents and purposes the house appeared absolutely abandoned.

Confusion filled him. This was not at all like his other assignments. There was nothing to investigate, and nothing obvious to disclose to the Ministry. Already Arthur was formulating a mental outline of the site, in which he could only describe the _lack_ of features. Perhaps a thorough search through the rooms would yield better results. His mouth opened to give Jeremy Chandler such an order.

Close by, there was an abrupt crash as a closet door swung open at Arthur's side. From the depths of its enclave lunged a masked and robed figure, arms outstretched and wand glinting at its tip. By means of a fair bit of luck, Arthur was able to dance out of his attacker's path, an alarmed cry rising in his throat. The success of his maneuver did not last long, however, as the charging man had only briefly tripped over his own robes and was once more making a direct approach for the country.

The pair collided like an avalanche to an overpass. Their wands fell to the wayside as Arthur's arm automatically connected with the man's face. It was fortunate that the force of the blow had sent both slim, wooden weapons clattering to the floor and far out of reach. After all, the experienced, abnormally strong country would always have an advantage in this area over wizard-kind. It was unlikely that this man had ever lifted a hand against another in that crude, vulgar art of hand-to-hand combat. No, this sort of scenario would be completely foreign to him. He'd be much too dependent on his capabilities with magical acts to properly defend himself in this most helpless of states.

 _All the better for me..._

As quick as his reflexes would allow after disarming the Death Eater, England flipped them over. With their vertical positions now reversed, he proceeded to pummel the wizard in and around his mask. As intimidating as it was to look at, England found that the man's mask was rather flimsy, and did little in the way of shielding his face. If anything it was probably cumbersome for looking through.

And so it went, with England constantly on the offensive and the Death Eater forced into a position of perpetually maintaining his flimsy defense. For a while England wondered if the man would _ever_ end up retaliating, until that elated thought immediately died as his brain went blank. The masked man had bashed him in the skull, too fast for the confident country to properly react. Intercepting or avoiding the punch had verged on the impossible. As England's thoughts cleared, he was filled with rage, a thirst for retribution, fueled by his chagrin at having let the hit through. Whether done by luck or a sliver of concealed skill, the Death Eater's attack had made him furious.

Green, hazy light flooded his eyes as he prepared to unleash a wandless assault, though just then a second strike to the face left him severely disoriented. This time it'd hit his nose, the knuckles coming swiftly to crunch against the fragile cartilage. Blood flowed freely from his nostrils and dripped down to the skull-faced mask below. His head reeled, allowing his attacker to turn the tides by rolling them back over. With his counter-move foiled, England resorted to driving his fists into the Death Eater's sensitive face, throat, and gut. This time the Death Eater had the better position, but his punches were still lacking. It wasn't entirely difficult for Arthur to block them or retaliate with three-fold the force.

At long last, and not without a great deal of delay, Jeremy tried to come to his aid. Beforehand, he'd been hindered by his own clumsiness. Half of his precious attention had landed and locked on the all-too-important scuffle taking place at his feet, while the rest of his divided focus had been dedicated to finding his fallen wand. His hands had fumbled with it more than once, dropping it in his haste to assist his partner. It was times like these that England felt truly concerned with the Auror Department's latest, loose recruitment methods.

For a spell, Jeremy Chandler hesitated. His dithering fingers twitched around his wand's handle, recently-retrieved from the floor. The wand's point wavered in a quandary, drifting across the dueling men. Even in the thick of his brawl, England's eyes picked out the distinct bobbing of Chandler's adam's apple as he swallowed deeply. Chandler's nerves were failing him; England had seen it in other men before, often on the battlefield.

Not knowing what else to do to rouse the rookie back into reality, England snapped, "FOR FUCK'S SAKE. YOU'RE A WIZARD WITH A WAND, _USE_ IT."

It seemed to work, since Jeremy's answering cry was a quavering " _Stupefy!"._ He brandished his wand like a dagger, and the air bled into red. At the very least, the Auror's aim had been true, striking the Death Eater dead-center. At the same time, he'd avoided England with an expert eye. Stiffening at the stunning spell, the Death Eater became easy prey for England, whom pounced on the opportunity to put him out of commission. The country sprang to his feet, gripped the front of the man's robes, and swung him towards a wall with ease. The plaster cracked; the man cried; the air cracked as he apparated away.

"...Fucking Christ," cursed Arthur, mouth agape. All that, and still he got away. "Fucking... _Christ_."

"Well that was _"fun",_ but we should've waited fo' reinforcements," Jeremy puffed, breathing heavily through his shock "Don't ye think?"

 _'Load of help they'd be, if you're an indicator of competence,_ England snorted softly in the confines of his mind, the harsh and hurtful thought locked safely away from Chandler's sensitive ears. Even if he had spoken the thought aloud, England had no doubt that the comment would've flown straight over the man's head in his present state. He was entirely engrossed in channeling his ragged, excited breathing. An asthma attack flaring up, possibly.

 _Wouldn't surprise me, really. It'd fall just within my regular dose of luck that I'd be paired with the one asthmatic Auror that's never heard of the modern, muggle invention of the puffer._

Keeled over and clutching his kneecaps with a death-grip, Jeremy wheezed, "By the way, what the HELL was tha'?"

"Does it matter? He's long-gone now," England grunted, emotionless above his internal turmoil. Blood ran down his chin like a red river, but he was seemingly unconcerned.

"It was a Death Eater, right?" Chandler inferred instantly, though a little late. The man's gentle eyes had obtained a quality of widened wildness from the experience, and he was in much-changed state. Arthur noticed tremors attacking his knees, the cracking in his high, warbling voice. Perhaps this had affected him more than Arthur had previously reckoned. "God damn... I didn't know..."

"-That they could be so bold? Any ox can be driven past a pack of wolves with You-know-who at the whip."

Processing this grim parable, Jeremy at last questioned, "What on Earth could _he_ want with _you_?"

"I'm not _entirely_ sure," admitted Arthur. "Though I might have a few ideas..."

In spite of Chandler's expectant muteness, he didn't elaborate further. Without the context of England's nationhood, there was no point. No good could come from vague explanations, for either party.

 _No, there is definitely no need for that, and especially not when_ he _has a report to write up._

* * *

 **Harry**

* * *

The more he said it, the more it felt right. It just fit, almost too perfectly. His mouth formed the words again in insistence.

"I'm telling you, Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater."

"Harry, don't be ridiculous-"

"He is! How could he not be? You saw how he acted back there, the things he said... You have to admit it was all very suspicious."

"Yes, but Draco has always been a bully, throwing his weight around with vague threats," Hermione pointed out.

Mimicking said Slytherin, Ron chimed in with mocking accuracy, " _My father will hear about this!_ "

This time, there was no laughter shared between the trio at the imitation. Harry was dead serious, and he would not be persuaded away from his assumption. No jokes, mockeries, dismissals, reassurances, or any other efforts from his friends could distract him.

"I still say he's been recruited," insisted Harry stubbornly, his voice coming out as a low hiss. "Who's to say he hasn't been following in his Dad's footsteps? In fact, the way he held his arm... Borgin was terrified when Malfoy showed him his arm. I'd be willing to bet he's even been branded with the dark mark."

Looking even more dubious than before, Hermione countered, "I didn't know that You-know-who was in the business of recruiting _teenagers_ Harry."

Harry shrugged, unswayed. "You don't know Voldemort like I do."

"Maybe," half-conceded Ron, since that bit was difficult to deny, though he too wasn't completely convinced.

The three of them just let it drop at that, continuing their walk back to the Weasley joke-shop with the conversation all but dead and buried between them. Despite their unspoken vow of silence on the matter, Harry wasn't ready to let the idea go just like that, and it ran rampant in his head the whole while.

Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater.

* * *

 **England  
**

* * *

 _It didn't take You-Know-Who long to make a move. Not long at all..._ England observed to himself in the quietude of his own thoughts. _  
_

Once more the country had made the move to a new spot, and this time he was staying in a snug, vacant apartment. Across from him sat a hot cup of tea, still steaming. He'd made it to calm his nerves more than anything, taking comfort in the routine action of sipping the scalding liquid. It seemed to burn down his throat like a tongue of dragon fire, and in his current state he could hardly register its taste. Be that as it may, he found it soothing and familiar nonetheless. But most of all, it helped him to think clearly, to concentrate, to convince himself that there was no present need for panic.

 _'Seems that his forces are far more entrenched in the Ministry than I previously anticipated. They'd have to be, since they knew_ exactly _where Chandler was going, and where_ I'd _be as an extension._

He pondered over the dilemma a little harder, lips pursing around the rim of the tea-cup. The muscles in his face twitched marginally as hot tea sunk down his gullet again.

 _They know that I'm attached to Chandler on missions, dispatches, and investigations. They also knew where Chandler would be today. That means that there's a worm in the Auror department. It has to be the source of the leak; that's the only valid explanation. The information could only come directly from there, and wouldn't be common knowledge amongst the general population of Ministry employees. Hell, it could've been the person that sent Chandler to that house in the first place, knowing that I'd most likely tag along with him. I'll have to ask him who...  
_

Grimacing, England clenched his free hand into a fist - one of the few outward signs of his stress.

 _We're damn lucky that it was only a one-man ambush. Bit ambitious... Why only one Death Eater anyhow? It's a horrid tactic. It must have been a test to see if the bait would work... a foolish test, one that won't work twice,_ England resolved, smothering his consternation with false confidence.

He refused to run from the Ministry just yet with his tail between his legs. No matter what connections Voldemort had, how deep his claws were in the Auror Department, or how much danger he directed at England, he was determined to stay a little longer. Leaving the Ministry on his own terms was likely a tad too much to hope for at this point, but England could hold on a little longer. He had to at least expose the corruption that he now had personal proof of. Maybe that would make enough of a difference to turn the tides of this war, however temporarily.

 _I won't let him win._

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Guess who's back. Back again. Blue is back. To be lynched.**

 **Hi! Hopefully some readers are still straggling along to see this update! Why did I disappear? My only excuse is that I'm a busybusybusy Uni student with familial and artistic obligations (like my own original novel), and this fanfiction has been at the bottom of my massive to-do list for a long time. Since I'm going skiing soon, however, I decided to finally clean up this chapter and let it see the light of day. I'm so sorry for the long wait ;w;**

 **If I continue after this point really depends on whether or not there is still sufficient interest in the fanfiction after all this time, since my motivation has been waning as of late (hence the long absence). Show your support for this chapter if you'd like to see more? If enough people review, then I'll pull together more chapters, I promise. I do have some dialogue written for the next installment, so there's that.**

 **I love you all my lovelies -heart- Review please?**


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